


And My Heart Is A Hollow Plain (For The Devil To Dance Again)

by Lothiriel84



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aromantic Sherlock, Asexual Sherlock, F/M, Gen, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Spoilers, Undecided Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-02
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-09-27 23:14:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10056224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lothiriel84/pseuds/Lothiriel84
Summary: And the fever began to spreadFrom my heart down to my legsBut the room was so quiet oh(Florence + The Machine,Breath Of Life)





	

He doesn’t have the slightest idea where he’s going until he’s staring down the walkway to a group of tourists gathered before the entrance to London Aquarium, and his feet lead him to an all too familiar bench as if of their own accord.

What was he thinking? he wonders, and not for the first time. That was his one chance at fixing things between him and Molly, a last ditch attempt at salvaging what was left of their friendship; but obviously he had to go along and blow it – that appeared to be just his thing these days.

If only he could stop spouting off deductions at just the wrong moment, he muses somewhat grimly. (And it doesn’t matter what John said, he will never stop feeling at least partially responsible for Mary’s fate.) This is the life he has chosen for himself, that much is true; but there are still times when he finds himself considering how would it feel to settle for something ordinary for a change.

He would die of boredom within a month, quite possibly. But then again, he wouldn’t get anyone killed either, so on balance he’s not sure which of those options would be more advisable.

Sentiment, he scoffs, though it lacks his usual scorn. He may have spent the better part of his life denying it, but if there is one thing his dearest sister demonstrated quite clearly it’s that however hard you try to lock away your feelings, they will still lie in wait until your defences are low and you’re finally unable to hold back the flood.

Take his brother, for all the world a cold and unfeeling bastard; until you really look at him, and realise how he would literally take a bullet to his chest in order to spare his ungrateful sibling some pain. Mycroft wasn’t lying when he told him that caring was not an advantage; what he failed to observe was that it was something his brother had learnt by means of his personal experience, and such a statement was simply one more instance of him exercising his own peculiar version of kindness.

(Trust Mummy to lash out at her least favourite son for that very reason. As for himself, he had to reluctantly acknowledge that he was just like her in so many ways, especially when it came to dealing with confusing and all-too-intense emotions that were invariably too much for him.)

It would be so much easier if he just could stop caring – about everything, really. Not only his infuriating big brother, whom he spent so much time foolishly trying to push away – the brother who had been the one constant in his life, the safe harbour he could always turn to in times of trouble; there were so many people his life had got entangled with, in one way or the other, and one of them was currently standing in the middle of his recently renewed flat – quite possibly bewildered by his incongruous behaviour, or absolutely furious at him, or maybe both of those things at the same time. What was worse was that he had no excuse this time around, nor some sort of explanation that would make any sense at all.

All he had planned to do was to give her an abridged version of the circumstances which had led to that excruciating phone call, offer her some closure; only, he had somehow forgotten to take her utter unselfishness into account, and his brain had chosen that exact moment to go offline.

She was so kind, always, and she was standing in front of him, alive and breathing and nothing short of a miracle. (And he’d done it before, once, though he had aimed for the cheek that time – and he hadn’t been that desperate to get as close to her as humanly possible, just to remind himself that he hadn’t lost her after all.) That was how it had always been for him – he would either feel too much, or nothing at all, and in the end his only feasible option was to disengage from the situation entirely.

(The Mary in his head is now rolling her eyes in mock annoyance, and yet of all people she’s the one who would understand how his reasons cannot be ruled out as entirely selfish; it’s not dissimilar to walking around with a bomb strapped to your chest, you should know better than to attempt to defuse it in the middle of a crowd.)

A wave of nausea rolls over him as the memories flood back all at once – Semtex and snipers and blood on the pavement, sharks and water and a singsong that haunts his dreams, always. They had chips, he and Eurus, that night; or at least, Faith did, for his sister showed little to no sign of remembering that much. And now he is sitting on the same bench, and he feels like he is falling, again.

“Sherlock?”

For a long moment he doesn’t look up, thinking she’s another figment of his imagination. Then her hand is on his shoulder, and he reaches for it, blindingly, as if in a pathetic attempt to anchor himself. Of course she was going to go after him, that was her nature; she may be no detective, but she’s still no fool, and a part of his brain is genuinely admiring her for successfully deducing his final destination.

She doesn’t ask him if he’s all right; it’s probably written all over his face, quite embarrassingly so, but for the time being he can’t bring himself to care.

“I’m not in love with you,” he blurts out at length. _Bit not good, Sherlock_ , the John in his head chides him, but he is genuinely trying to be kind here, spare her further humiliation and pain.

“I know,” she nods, calmly, and takes a seat beside him. “It’s okay, I don’t mind. We’re still friends – you said so yourself, remember?”

He regards her for a moment, then waves his hand in frustration. “You’re missing the point, Molly. I didn’t know it until I you forced me to say it out loud, but that doesn’t make it any less true.”

“Sherlock,” she cuts in, sounding considerably more defeated than only a few moments ago. “Could we just – not go through this again? Please?”

There is a gull perched on the parapet that separates them from the river, and he decides he might as well direct his irritation that way. The bird doesn’t return his glare though, merely stares back at him without any real interest, and he thinks this may very well be a sign he’s finally turning mad.

Why does it have to be so difficult, he grumbles to himself. He can deduce nearly everything about any chosen subject; but unfortunately sentiment is not, and never will be, within that number.

“My point is, I’m not attracted to you. I would know if I was, I should think. But I still do – love you, I mean. And not simply as a friend.”

Molly frowns, gazes back at him, confused. “I – don’t understand. What are you trying to tell me?”

He shakes his head, his mind momentarily, unhelpfully blank. “I don’t know. I just – do.”

The gull can’t possibly be judgmental of his unusually subpar eloquence, but for a brief moment it feels as if he deserves nothing less. He glances at her lips, and it’s only for a fraction of a second, but he knows she notices because her breath catches, ever so slightly.

(She doesn’t pull back, even though he gives her plenty of time to do so, for a change. And he’s falling again, burning, but she’s there to catch him – and maybe, just maybe, it will all work out in the end, somehow.)


End file.
